


Hopeful For Nothing

by cross



Category: Hakuouki
Genre: Gen, Hair, Haircuts, Revenge, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:57:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cross/pseuds/cross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They're practically identical. Dress the kid up like a girl, and you wouldn't be able to tell 'em apart." Kaoru decides to make some much-needed changes in his life, starting with his appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hopeful For Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Very vague allusions to sexual abuse within.

She had long hair, the girl who masqueraded as a boy and passed for one without a bat of the careless eye. She wore it tied up with ribbons that matched the muted colors of her hakama, and the ponytail bounced with each step she took in her eager attempts to keep pace with the boys in blue, the perilous Shinsengumi captains, who let a plain and passive oni woman accompany them on their rounds for reasons that remained a mystery to him.

He had long hair too, the boy who masqueraded as a girl but couldn’t deceive anyone where it counted the most. He spent more time than he cared to on making it look presentable before leaving the house, combing it until it gleamed and weaving it with hair sticks, tassels, and ornaments until it sat on his crown in a prim bun. His bangs framed his face just like the girl’s did, emphasizing his soft, feminine features, like rose-stained lips and a pair of dark, distant eyes.

But it really didn’t matter, did it, how well he bore the shell of a woman, because when the obi was ripped off and the kimono fell to the floor, Nagumo Kaoru was still a man. And when his sister Chizuru removed her hakama in the privacy of her own room in the soldiers’ compound, she was still a woman, coveted by their kind for her blood and her body, certain to be treated like a queen when the right oni sought to make her his wife. It would mean a life of pregnancy after pregnancy, childbirth after childbirth, bearing sons (and maybe even some daughters who would meet similar fates) in hopes of continuing their clan lineage without the interference of humans or their tainted blood. It would mean respect, being treated like someone of worth, with a purpose in their world beyond seeking revenge on the ones who had torn them apart in the first place.

To Kaoru, though, it meant nothing. He was disposable, no longer a Yukimura nor a true Nagumo, unable to give those who raised him the children they desired. A lack of proper organs hadn’t stopped them from claiming his body for themselves. He who bore the same face and blood as Chizuru was worthless and always would be, while she would be a prize, cared for and loved by others as if she were their own, whether it was their extended family or the annoying meddlers who had taken her in. Chizuru was handed her happiness on a silver platter, and Kaoru was left with nothing but a sword to wield against true monsters, his own family, in words if not in true brotherhood. Happiness, he discovered, was pain and suffering etched into the faces of those who hurt you. Those who owed you. Then, and only then, could the score be called “even.”

Vile men had told him that his long hair was beautiful, that they’d like to rip those fancy combs out and have a little fun. “It doesn’t matter that you’re not a girl, kid, ‘slong as you’ll still moan like one.” Those men spoke no more, but their words lingered, echoing at him whenever he spotted his own reflection in the water under the bridge, and his usually distant expression twitched into something cruel and enraged.

The last time Nagumo Kaoru saw his beautiful long hair was in his fist, as he clenched the hilt of his blade in the other and cleaved his locks off, the sounds of ripping apart disturbing an otherwise quiet night. Some fell to the ground by his knees, dusting the tatami mats beneath him with strands. He held a big chunk of it in his hand, and his head felt unnaturally light, his back unnaturally cool. He made his way to the house gardens and released the fistful of his own hair, scattering it into the grass and a breeze that would carry it far away. His hair would certainly need an even trimming once he caught sight of himself in a mirror, but for now it didn’t matter what he looked like. Petite and feminine though he was, with no kimono, no long hair, and a scabbard at his side there wouldn’t be a single man or demon making passes at him. There would be no more pretending.

There would only be revenge. He would burn his own twisted face into his beloved sister’s mind, so that she would never forget him ever again. It wouldn’t matter if he was prettier or if she was fit for motherhood because their suffering would be the same and she would never again be able to smile like she did the day they met in the streets. Her precious smile would be just like his: wretched and hopeful for nothing. If they stood together, you would only be able to tell them apart by their hair.


End file.
